


Steve Rogers: The American Terrorist

by DumpsterDiving101



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Canon Compliant, Captain America - Freeform, Depression, Fugitives, Headcanon, Marvel - Freeform, On the Run, PTSD, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, enlightened bucky barnes, no infinity war spoilers, those two years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-02 06:08:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14538354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DumpsterDiving101/pseuds/DumpsterDiving101
Summary: Steve Rogers, formerly known as Captain America, is a terrorist. The subject of a nation-wide manhunt, Steve is forced to go into hiding and reconsider his actions, as well as determine who Captain America truly is.Captain America: Civil War takes place in 2016 and Avengers: Infinity Wr takes place in 2018. This is what Steve does during the two years in between.





	1. The (Safe) House

**Author's Note:**

> I believe that this story is cannonologically accurate, and I have put it together using a mixture of information I received from the movies, from interviews with the cast and the Russo brothers, and from my own theories. This will be multiple chapters long and at the end of each chapter I will explain some things that happened and why they happened. 
> 
> I love receiving comments, so if you have any suggestions, questions, comments or theories please feel free to share :)

Steve did what he had to do. He did what he was supposed to do.

Not by the government, or other people, he did what he was supposed to do by himself and his own morals, which thus far had guided him where he'd needed to go. He knew he had to fight in world war 2, then knew that allowing himself to be injected with the super serum would be the best way he could help. Then, when they paraded him around like a trained monkey, he knew that he had to get out and go into the real action.

This was just the same. It was his job as Steve Rogers, not as Captain America but as Steve Rogers, to do what he needed to do despite what everyone was telling him. This resulted in him finding Bucky and standing by him when the whole world was convinced he was a criminal, and in Steve refusing to sign the Sakovia Accords when he knew they were wrong, and in him doing everything he needed to do at the expense of his friendships and livelihood. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. He had a duty to uphold.

Then, after all that had passed, Bucky announced he wanted to be put into cryofreeze again, and Steve was forced to agree even when his skin crawled with goosebumps and he could feel the words choking him, but to do anything but agree would be selfish. Bucky _did_ need help, there was no denying that. Every moment they were together, Steve could see that he was in pain.

Back before the war, the first war, the war with the fireside chats and the draft and the serum, Steve had thought he’d known how to fix things. Time healed all wounds, even the deeper ones, like his mother passing on. There was nothing that couldn’t be fixed with friends and time.

And then, nearly eighty years later, Steve was standing on the quinjet next to his best friend who’s entire demeanor had been lost. His eyes had always been blue, but they’d always been incredibly dark blue, so dark that if you didn’t look close enough they almost appeared brown. But standing on that quinjet his eyes looked much, much lighter, like the film had been removed and now Bucky was seeing the world with much more clarity, the type of clarity that couldn’t be fixed with time or with friends. Steve knew what he wanted to say when Bucky told him he wanted to go back in the ice. But he also knew what he needed to say.

"You sure about this?" The perfect middle ground, allowing him to be supportive while at the same time letting Bucky know that he himself, was not sure about it.

By then they were in the room in Wakanda. Bucky was already prepared to go under, and Steve had tried not to watch as he’d sat on that table, getting a variety of injections and tests taken, all while facing the cryofreeze chamber but never looking at it.

Steve had walked over, glancing at the machine like he’d just noticed it. He kept walking, his body relaxed because it was okay, really. This machine was not that one that tormented his friend, but instead it was the one that would ease his pain. When he put it like that, it sounded more like death than therapy. But that’s what it felt like.

He couldn’t say that, though, because he was Captain America, the bravest, most courageous knucklehead of them all.

He also couldn’t say that because when he asked Buck if he was sure, Bucky tried to smile and it came out a grimace. This new Bucky didn’t know how to smile. The old one didn’t know how not to.

T'Challa was very kind and in return, Steve did his best to be respectful, to show appreciation for their offer of help and to be the polite guest that he needed to be. But then he was back on the plane, headed home, except Bucky wasn’t with him and he didn’t know where he was supposed to fly to. For a few hours, he fantasied about flying the quinjet into the arctic and freezing again. It only seemed fair: if Bucky was frozen, why shouldn’t Steve be too?

But he didn’t do that, because that would be selfish, and Captain America wasn’t allowed to be selfish.

—————————

Steve got all the way back to New York before realizing that he didn’t have a home anymore.

When he got back to his old apartment, he found it wrapped in caution tape and bugged floor to ceiling. Sighing, he collected his things, gave it one more sad look around, then left through the window once more. By the time he was back on the ground a SWAT team was already marching into the apartment, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t bother running, or ducking into an alley or anything, just fell in to step with the other sidewalk commuters.

It would have been nice to take his bike with him, but Steve wasn’t even sure if it was in the garage. He’d ridden it to S.H.I.E.L.D. earlier that... week? Steve longed for the days when time had meaning and days had structure, when darkness meant night meant sleep, and he ate at the same times even if the pickings were slim. Their was a beginning and an end to the day and there was a beginning and end to life. But now? Steve was sure that he could die, but whoever ended up killing him would have to be pretty creative. It was depressing to think about.

Steve found himself outside Sam's house and stood in front of the sliding glass back door, not knocking. He'd never wandered the streets homeless before- maybe it was time? Back before the war, that had always been the worst case scenario- behind coughing himself to death, of course. But now? Surely Steve could set up a nice little shantytown of his own. He could jump trains- did people still do that? Even if they didn’t, he could lay on the tops of train cars, traveling around America, adventuring with nothing but his backpack and... and...

What else did he have left?

Sam opened the door and pulled him in, even though Steve hadn’t knocked. "Took you too long. We thought we might have to come and get you."

"I’m fine."

Sam gave him a look like _yeah, I didn’t ask_. "Tasha's here too. We’re all packed, just waiting for you."

Steve stood a little straighter, squaring his shoulders. "Sorry to make you wait."

Sam gave him that look again and Steve crossed his arms. Sam shrugged, gesturing him to follow him to the garage.

"But I thought your car was destroyed on the bridge?"

"I hope you don’t expect me to fly everywhere. Come on, let’s get a move on."

Steve got into the shotgun seat, leaving his bag at his feet. "Where’s-"

"The garage isn’t even open yet. Let me at least pull out of the driveway before you start with the... interrogation." Sam’s words were harsh, but his tone was gentle. Steve imagined him perfecting the former in the military, and the latter at the veteran's center.

Steve did him one better, and didn’t say anything as they pulled out, started driving, and pulled onto one of the busier roads. There was some shuffling and Steve turned to find Natasha climbing out from underneath the backseats. He didn’t even have the energy to be surprised. "Decided to take a nap?"

"Heat signatures," she waved off, climbing onto a seat and buckling up. "They knew there were two of us in the house and that you were outside, but with me under the seat, they only registered two heat signatures."

"The seats aren’t that thick," Steve argued, though he wasn’t sure why. Couldn’t he just shrug and move on? Was he allowed to?

"No, but you do know what’s underneath the car floor? Pipes. Hot ones. Trust me, they think that one of us is still in the house. I’m sorry Sam, by the way."

Sam shrugged. "I’ve got the important things. Let them search, they won’t find anything."

Steve wanted to apologize again, but he knew Sam wouldn’t appreciate it. He should probably then thank Sam, but that didn’t feel right either, so instead Steve let himself stare out the front window in silence.

"So," Natasha said lowly after a while. "You have your things. You come to Sams house, and he tells you to get in the car. What’s your plan from there?"

"You make it sound like a hostage situation," Sam objected,lightening the mood. "I’m not holding a gun to his head. He got in the car on his own free will."

"Free will... doesn’t exist."

"No, no, you are not allowed to start up this argument again! Captain, can you please explain to Natasha that free will exists? We’ve had this argument before."

"It’s all fate," Natasha continued, a small smile growing on her face. "There is no free will when your destiny is predetermined."

"Your destiny is predetermined by what you do with your free will. What if I yanked this car to the side right now into traffic? That’s free will."

"No, it would be you following your destiny. Steve, back me up."

Steve tried for a smile. "He has a point." He paused, taking a moment to wet his lips, but the others waited. "Besides, it’s kind of sad to think that you don’t really have any control over your own life. It’s... restrictive."

Natasha leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the center console. "Well of course _you’d_ say that. Your whole thing is freedom."

"That’s it," Sam said, throwing up his hands briefly before returning the, to the wheel. "Captain America agrees with me. You know that means I’m right."

———————

The safehouse was notably different from some of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s that Steve had seen in the past. For one, it was an actual house, not a shed or bunker or abandoned building with provisions hidden inside. It was a smaller home in the mountains, like a cabin, but fancier than most of the cabins Steve had seen. Natasha let herself in so quickly that Steve didn’t see whether she had a key or had picked the lock. Inside, it was obnoxiously luxurious, with a fully decorated kids' bedroom, a guest room, a master bedroom, a kitchen, and a living room, not to mention the two bathrooms, both of which with showers that ran hot and cold water, and one of which with a jacuzzi tub.

Natasha dropped her bag on the couch casually, immediately going over to the locked closet where the furnace hid behind, 'unlocking' it too, and then pulling off a piece of the wall to reveal a decent sized stash of supplies.

"Nice place," Sam commented, looking around. "I guess the salary for Secret-Agent-ing or whatever is pretty nice."

Natasha shrugged a shoulder, pulling out a few freeze dried meals. "I wouldn’t know."

Sam went to explore the cabin further, and as soon as he had left the room Steve turned to Natasha, his voice low. "Where's the family?"

"Hmm?"

Steve crossed his arm. "There’s a child’s bedroom. I’m guessing they don’t know-"

"Cool it Cap," Natasha said, cutting him off. "It’s a weekend home. Some rich couple brings their two daughters up here a few times a year for vacation. It’s nice, right?"

"It’s not ours."

"You stole that truck," she reminded him. "I don’t recall you getting permission."

"I borrowed it," Steve snapped.

Natasha crossed her arms, tilting her chin up in a way that made it seem like she had just learned something new. Steve hated that look- or maybe he just hated when it was directed at him. "Then I’m borrowing this place. No one's even using it, where’s the harm." It wasn’t a question, but a statement, and it made Steve want to just argue more. He didn’t know why he cared. Sam was a good man and it didn’t seem to bother him.

Steve internally cringed. _Natasha was a good person too._ And she was his friend. It wasn’t his job to question her every move.

_Right?_

——————-

They showered and changed into fresh clothes. Natasha spent half of the evening walking around in shorts and a tank top, and Steve spent half of his evening glaring at Sam who apparently had never been told it was rude to stare. Natasha claimed the master bedroom, Sam took the guest, and though Natasha had offered to share her king sized bed with him, Steve took the couch. He spent most of the day laying on it anyways. When that got boring, he shifted through the coffee table drawer, pulling out a book that had a log of the Cabins purchase and upkeep. "'Tasha? You know someone comes by every Saturday to check on the place?"

"10am sharp," she responded from the kitchen. "An older woman, named Sarah Michael."

Steve didn’t respond, just continued flipping through the book. The names meant nothing to him, though the dates were vaguely familiar. "They’ve had this cabin for six years."

"Give or take a few months. They bought it in July."

"Six years," Steve repeated. He’d been defrosted for that long, hadn’t he? More than that, even. Six years ago was the attack on New York, which meant he’d been defrosted for...

Natasha was leaning against the counter, staring at him with a look that seemed like worry, and Steve wondered how genuine it was. He would be willing to bet she could portray any emotion she wanted and have it seem legitimate. "What are you thinking about?"

Steve sighed, leaning back on the couch and letting the record book rest on his stomach. "What aren’t I thinking about?"  
  
She made a sympathetic look. "Barnes?"

Steve grunted. "How long have you known about this place?"

"A few years. S.H.I.E.L.D. has plenty of its own safehouses, but I always make sure to have a few others I can use. Sometimes I wonder how much my old training I still carry with me, but then, I guess it’s good that I didn’t put all my eggs in one basket. What about you?"

Steve looked up at the ceiling. It was lined with polished wood and Steve found himself counting the planks. "I don’t know. I like to think all of my eggs are spread out."

Natasha made a little snorting sound, and when Steve looked over she was smirking. "Let’s see. S.H.I.E.L.D. was one egg-"

"But that’s gone," Steve recounted. "What with the whole... terrorist thing."

"Another egg would probably be World War 2..."

Steve imagined a small chickens egg being crushed on a table, the sticky orange yolk getting everywhere. "Also gone. Comrades passed."

"And I imagine another egg for you is your life before the war."

Another egg, smashed. "All the members of my barbershop quartet are dead."

"What else? The abilities the serum gave you?"

"Captain America. That’s another egg." Steve imagined someone holding that egg in their hand, squeezing and trying to break it. "Another one would be... my morals."

"Ah yes." This seemed to amuse Natasha. "We can’t forget those."

She waited for him to go on, and Steve strained, trying to come up with a different one. "There’s my friends. That’s one egg."

"Only one?"

"You’re right, it’s not fair to put all of you eggheads under one category. There’s you and Sam as one, Bruce and Thor and Clint under one, and then... Rhodey and Vision and Wanda under one."

"You’re friends?"

Steve shrugged. "Honestly, I don’t know how to catagorize some of them, or whether I should at all. I might have a dozen friends. Or I might have two." He looked at Natasha, hoping she got the message that she was one of the two.

She leaned heavier against the counter. "And Tony?"

"He’s in his own category."

She smiled smalley. "His own egg?" Steve gave a little nod, allowing himself to smile. "And Bucky?"

His smile immediately dropped. "He’s in his own... I don’t even know. He’s completely separate."

"Would he be under the 'prewar' category?"

"He’d be under the 'family' category."

Natasha met his eyes, and Steve immediately felt the need to correct himself. "I suppose you and Sam would also-"

"It’s okay," she said quickly, stopping him. "You don’t need to placate me. It’s an honor to be your friend, Steve."

——————

Steve should have had more eggs.

He had nightmares, sleeping on the couch that night, which was unusual. Ever since the serum, whenever he managed to sleep he slept like baby, and usually only had nightmares after the fact. After New York he had them from time to time, but they were more like rewatching old footage than experiencing them again. He watched himself fight off the Chitauri, wincing when he didn’t watch his friends' backs as well as he should’ve, grimacing when he made a rookie mistake and potentially put others in danger. Constant improvement was absolutely necessary.

That night, on the couch in the cabin in the mountains, Steve had nightmares about trains. They were more dreamlike than he normally had, which was almost scarier than the dreams. The serum he’d been injected with was from the 1940s: it wasn’t foolproof. How was he to know if it was to wear off?

In the dreams, he had his backpack and spent his days hopping trains, like he’s imagined that day. None of the cargo cars were able to be opened so he climbed onto the top of the cars and slept there, except there were no stars in the sky, only smeared colors. Every time he got off of the trains he realized he’d left his backpack somewhere along the line and for days he’d go without supplies before finding his bag, only to lose it a few minutes later.

The dream ended when the train went over a ravine and Steve found himself rolling off the side and down, the wind ripping at his clothes and stinging his face and then he closed his eyes, and opened them, and he was so cold and someone was dragging him and what was left of his left arm was tinting the snow with blood.

Steve woke up then and was immediately clutching his head, as if doing that and gritting his teeth could make the dream go away. It was still dark outside but he quickly laced up his shoes and went outside to go for a run. It was cold, but Steve minded more because of the dream than due to actual discomfort.

——————

_Izzy laughed loudly, tilting his head back and slapping his knee. Bucky just smiled, waiting until there was an opening to add in another joke, causing Izzy to just crack up more. Steve laughed too, albeit a bit quieter. Underneath the blanket he could feel Bucky's relaxed posture, their bodies close enough that they could share warmth. It was so cold they could see their breathes, but with their close proximity and the blanket, it wasn’t all that bad._

"Steve?"

Steve blinked. "Yeah?"

Natasha was standing in front of him. "Were you asleep?"

"No." Steve paused, then shook his head. "No, I was awake. My eyes were open, weren’t they?"

"They were, but... it doesn’t matter. Lunch is ready, and we need to talk about what to do next."

"I’m not hungry."

"I didn’t ask." Natasha offered Steve a hand up and he took it, sighing when he got to his feet. "What were you thinking about?"

He shrugged. "Things." A pause. "One of the eggs."

"One of the eggs in your basket?"

"Mm-hmm. What’s for lunch?"

"I thought you said you weren’t hungry," Natasha said, nudging Steve.

"Chili," Sam announced proudly. "Assuming, you eat that sort of thing?" He said it with a smile, which for Sam meant there was more he wasn’t saying that Steve should be able to imply, usually a joke. This time, it seemed to be a joke.

Steve smiled, taking the bowl Sam was offering him. "It’s just fine, thank you."

"So, the plan," Natasha prompted once they had all sat down. "Do any of us need to be anywhere? Any scheduled apocalypses, important investigations, dinner dates, that sort of thing?" They both shook their heads.

"Well, I have work," Sam added in. "But... you know."

Steve felt a small sting of guilt, but did his best to ignore it. He met Sam's eyes and hoped that he received the message: _I’m sorry for dragging you into this._

Sam stayed impassive, though Steve got the feeling that he understood.

Steve turned to Natasha. "Could Sam go back to his normal life?"

Natasha twirled her spoon around her fingers like one would do with a knife. Steve knew exactly what type of knife too- a throwing knife, with a black ankle and a gleaming silver blade, partially serrated. He could imagine fingers twirling it too: larger fingers, less feminine than Natasha’s, twirling the knife around his fingers almost subconsciously.

"I don’t know," Natasha said, and Steve jolted back into reality. "He wasn’t a part of S.H.I.E.L.D., though he still committed crimes. Harboring fugitives, and then aiding us in helping Barnes escape..." Natasha gave Steve a look as if waiting for him to react. "I have my doubts."

"Can you take a temporary leave?" Steve asked, hoping his voice didn’t betray how desperate he felt. "Come back in a few weeks when this has all blown over?"

"Terror crimes don’t just blow over," Natasha warned. "But we can see. For now, I think we can all agree we need to lay low for a while."

———————

Steve spent a lot of time laying on the couch. He’d lay on his back, then after a while roll over to his side, then to his other side when his arm became numb. He wasted the day away thinking and day dreaming. Every once in a while, an intrusive thought would spring up and he’d imagine an egg being crushed underfoot, or he’d see Bucky falling off of the train again, or sometimes it would just be a whisper of something malicious, calling him lazy and telling him that he was betraying his duty. Outside the cabin, in the real world, crimes were still happening. Steve had a job to do. Yet he spent the day on the couch, rolling back and forth, and only getting up when he absolutely needed to.

Maybe he should have stayed in Wakanda. They could have put him in cryofreeze too and fix his messy mind at the same time as fixing Bucky, except _no, Steve’s just being selfish, he’s just making himself miserable, he just needs to make himself stop it._ Captain America didn’t need fixing, Captain America needed... a shield painted in red white and blue, and an ad campaign, posters and photographs and a script taped to his board with his lines on it. He could go and perform and the public would see him as he was needed to be seen again.

Steve wondered if Doctor Erskine were still alive, if he would be critical of how he made the Captain. Sometimes, Steve worried that he’d left too much Steve. The serum was supposed to make good better and bad worse, but what if it hadn’t? What if, this entire time Steve had been relying on his instincts, they had always been  _his_ instincts?

He spent the next... however long... recounting everything he could remember from the time he first saw the Winter Soldier. Chasing after him- was that the right thing to do? Or should he have stayed with Fury? He concluded that he was right to run. And later, the Sakovia Accords- why did he refuse to sign them? Was he a bad Captain if he didn’t trust his team? Tony had faith that they could sign the Accords and it wouldn’t be a big issue. Should Steve have just gone along with it?

Surely Bucky would be safe even if they did sign the Accords. Surely _everyone_ would be safer if they had just signed the damn papers. Sam would be at home, he and Natasha would both be back at the Avengers headquarters, and the name 'Captain America' would no longer be synonymous with treason.

He should have just signed the damn Accords.

 

 


	2. The (Empty) House

Before joining the army, Steve’s hair had been short, yet floppy. He didn’t have facial hair to speak of, besides a wisp, really nothing more than a shadow, of slightly darker peach fuzz above his lips. His hair was trimmed for the military and by the time he’d become Captain America the sides were shorter and the top was kept just long enough to swoop it to the side in a short sort of quiff.

Bucky’s always preferred having long hair. He thought that slicking it back made him look smooth, a real humdinger with the ladies. Steve had a memory that resurfaced from time to time of Bucky in his Sergeant's uniform, dark hair shorter under his cap. In the memory, Bucky's eyes were half closed and he licked his lips, rocking on his heels. It was no wonder the dames were all over him.

When Steve saw him again, he looked much, much younger. His hair was shorter, it seemed, and he was shorter as well, though that was probably only because Steve was taller. His face was bruised, his eyes wide- that was the strangest change, Bucky's eyes were wide as Steve unstrapped him from the table where he’d been experimented on. He never widened his eyes unless for dramatic effect, or if he was telling Steve something of the utmost importance. Bucky had perfected the lidded look, called it sultry, even. Honestly, Steve didn’t know what Bucky would have done with all his free time if he stopped spending every godforsaken moment chasing after girls. It was a hobby to Buck, and he was good at it too.

When Steve had helped Bucky limp out of the lab, he’d also noticed how much weight he’d lost. Bucky had always been skinny- it was the thirties, everyone was skinny- but Steve could feel the sharp corner of his elbow through his shirt, and his jaw was more defined, painfully defined almost. The muscles that held Bucky’s shoulders back and kept him standing straight had gone lax, leaving his standing posture lopsided.

Bucky never told him what they’d done to him.

When Steve had found him in the HYDRA lair, Bucky was strapped to a table and unconscious. Steve supposed he was sleeping, but the mental image of him regularly sleeping tied down to a table was a bit too much for Steve to even consider. He woke him up, helped him to his feet, and Bucky was more conscious by then, asking him about the serum with his wide eyes and scraped up cheek. He’d obviously been tortured, but at that point Steve didn’t know about the experiments.

"Did it hurt?" Bucky had asked, referring to the serum. Steve was helping him limp out of the room. Bucky had always been the type to walk through a limp. If he could help it, you’d never even know he was in pain.

"A little."

"Is it permanent?"

"So far."

Bucky Barnes, liberated prisoner of war: asking Steve if it had hurt when he’d become Captain America. And it had, obviously, it had hurt more than anything he’d experienced up to that point. But Steve was fine. Bucky, was not.

Back in present time, Steve leaned against his couch- not sitting on the couch, but rather on the floor _by_ the couch. He was in his own little apartment under the name 'John Elmer', and he’d been sitting on the floor for the past five hours.

At the time, Steve had taken Bucky’s questions about the serum as pure curiosity. But, as it turned out, part of the experimentation that had been run on Bucky was an attempt to replicate the Super Serum- possibly multiple attempts- so he was probably wondering if the same thing had happened to him.

So really, maybe Bucky didn’t mean "Did it hurt?" Maybe, instead, he meant "Did it also hurt?"

  
—————-

Steve thought about hair a lot, especially as time went on, especially after his razor broke and especially after his hair started growing long and he found himself with no desire to trim it. Captain America had short hair. He was supposed to be clean shaven with a military grade haircut.

There were a lot of things Captain America- Steve- no- yes- there were a lot of things that were expected of _both of them_.

Unfortunately, Steve didn’t have any scissors sharp enough and he hadn’t left the apartment in five weeks, so it looked like he was out of luck.

Sam dropped off groceries and teased him, telling him that if he didn’t start running again soon Sam would be able to lap him. Steve laughed without humor. It was a cute idea, but Steve didn’t think that Captain America would let him get out of shape. Getting out of shape was a very human thing, and ever since the serum that line had become a bit fuzzy for Steve.

So Steve let his hair grow out, and after a few more weeks had what Sam called a 'mountain man' beard. Sam would come over once or twice a week, drop off groceries, say things like "Man, you reek! Someone needs some Old Spice... or Mister Clean." Sam mimicked a spray bottle, pretending to wipe Steve down.

He did things like that, jokes and teasing to try and tell Steve things like _you need to get out of the house_ or _you reek, take a shower_. Steve would smile and play dumb, his eye bags feeling heavy and his back aching from leaning up against the foot of the couch for so long. He let Sam play mother, and then on the days that Sam didn’t come over, he’d go into the kitchen and take out a container of premade food, sitting against the refrigerator and eating whatever it was out of the container without bothering to heat it up. One day, he’d gone through half a container when he realized he was in fact eating cold spaghetti sauce that Sam had no doubt intended to go with pasta. He stared at it glumly, but didn’t put it back.

Natasha visited too, but not as often. She was doing something, Steve knew that much, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Some nights she came over and ordered Steve on the couch, announcing they were going to watch a movie. At first, she tried asking him to do things, but when that didn’t work she commanded him. It was notably harder to ignore her commands. Steve wondered if that was a Captain America thing, that it was hardwired in his brain to follow orders. Thinking about it made his head hurt, so instead he just listened to her.

One night Natasha came over with a brown paper bag and red eyes. "Go take a shower. We have work to do."

Steve wanted to object, but she met his eyes and he was immediately getting up. Most people thought that Natasha had to work to have such an intense gaze, but Steve knew the truth: she had to work to tone it down. When Natasha looked at him with her jaw set and her eyes bloodshot, there was no arguing.

After his shower Steve went to put on the same clothes again, but the insides had a bunch of white dust on it: dead skin cells, he realized with a sigh. Steve ended up wrapping himself in a towel and walking to his room to get changed. He’d never slept on the bed, so it remained sterile and made. Most of the clothes in his drawers were fresh and folded.

When he came back out, freshly dressed, Natasha had him sit down and trimmed his beard. He thought that she’d chop it all off, but she didn’t, just neatened it up, shaving some of the scraggly neck hair off. After she gave him a quick haircut too, she stood, announcing "get up, it’s my turn."

Steve found himself wearing rubber gloves and rubbing bleach into her hair. They worked in silence, and eventually Natasha closed her eyes, parting her lips just slightly. When Steve was about to pull of the gloves, she muttered a 'do my brows too', she he did, then she went and rinsed out the bleach. Natasha appeared from the bathroom a few minutes later, a bombshell blonde. Her eyes brows were so blonde they practically disappeared, and the blonde color made her skin look pinker. It made her look almost sick. "So? How do I look?"

Steve was at a loss for words. "You look... nice."

She rolled her eyes, leaning heavier against the doorway. "No, I want your actual answer. Not the Captain America one."

"It’s... different."

"Closer."

"Definitely a change."

"Try harder."

Steve couldn’t swallow the lump in his throat. "You look sick."

"Do I look sexy?"

Steve gave her a once over. "I don’t... I don't know."

Natasha looked like she wanted to press further, but Steve was telling the truth. So she shrugged. "Good. That’s what I was going for."

People were chasing her, it seemed, and it also may have been possible that Natasha bleaching her hair was comparable to Steve growing out his beard.

——————

“I think therapy would help you,” Sam was saying. “It doesn’t make you any less of a man. I went for a while after I got back; I still go from time to time. All I want is for you to promise to try it, okay? One hour of your life, for the peace of mind of your friend.”

Sam’s lips were chapped. They made Steve think of Bucky’s lips- always very dry, he was wetting them constantly. In the winter, he had to put Vaseline on them, otherwise they’d get so dry they bled.

“Hey Cap? Can you look at me?”

Steve looked at him, his brain feeling muddled. Did Sam just call him Cap? As in Captain America? Didn’t he know? _Didn’t he know?_

“Captain America…” Steve started, then stopped.

Sam waited. “Captain America what?” Steve shook his head, but Sam pressed on. “Captain America what?”

Steve looked at him pleadingly, begging him with his eyes, but Sam didn’t back down. Steve exhaled a shaky breath, forcing himself to look down. “Captain America died on that bridge.”

Sam’s voice was foggy, as if Steve was hearing him through a wall. _What bridge?_ But no, that wasn’t right. Captain America didn’t die on a bridge, he died earlier than that. He died in a tent, in the rain, with the words ‘But it does sound familiar’ ringing in his ears. No, that wasn’t quite right. He died on that train in his nightmares, falling and flailing and the closed eyes, open eyes red smears in the snow.

Sam tried to keep talking to him, but it hurt too much, so Steve clutched his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes closed and when he opened them again, he was gone.

—————

Sam didn’t come back the next week. Natasha dropped off food for Steve, but offered no explanation for why Sam was gone. She didn’t need to.

Steve had finally driven him away.

—————

“We still have a job to do,” Natasha was saying. “There are still some remaining HYDRA bases that we have to eliminate.”

Steve shook his head. He didn’t know anything else to do, so he just shook his head.

—————

The worst morning was when Steve woke up standing in the middle of his living room. The apartment around him was in shambles.

He’d had another nightmare. This one was about him and Bucky fighting side by side, except he was shorter and weaker again, and Bucky had his long hair but no metal arm. The forces of HYDRA had surrounded them, and every time Steve tried to block bullets from hitting Bucky his shield turned to tissue paper, and every time Bucky tried to deflect the bullets from hitting Steve the bullets lodged themselves into his human arm.

Steve had heard of people with PTSD suffering attacks where they ended up fighting their friends or neighbors, thinking they were the enemy. Somehow, this was almost worse.

———————-

Steve woke up the next day to the sound of music playing through a speaker: Marvin Gaye’s Troubleman.

Sam was sitting at his table, sipping coffee. He noticed when Steve woke up but didn’t look surprised. “Morning sleeping beauty, is that floor comfy?”

“More so than you’d think. Marvin Gaye?”

“Music is the window to the soul,” Sam said with a false air of wisdom. “Actually, I don’t know about that, but it is nice. And it’s harder to be miserable when you’re listening to something nice.”

—————-

Steve started going outside again, only under thick coats that hid his body and the knowledge that no one had ever seen Captain America with a beard. The first time he went out, it was with only his own thoughts to distract him, to the point where each pedestrian was a threat, was hydra, was a man from the war, and each girl with short hair was someone Bucky had dated, and everyone was a threat in one way or another.

The second time, Steve listened to music on the phone Sam had given him. Sam had called it old technology, but it seemed pretty advanced to Steve. He listened to Brenda Lee- a singer from the 60s, Steve had been frozen when she was popular but it was good- and walked with purpose. He had no purpose. But he walked with purpose.

He started getting his own groceries and Sam visited less often. Natasha came over and Steve tried to teach her how to darn socks and how to knit, but it had been so long since he’d had to do either that she ended up teaching him.

Steve was sick. The nightmares came more often, sometimes in the form off daydreams that he couldn’t stop, no matter how much he wanted to or how tightly he gritted his teeth. _He was sick, he was sick, he was sick_.

It was three in the morning when Steve crawled to his phone, flipping to the contacts, the words ready to explode from his mouth: _Shuri, I need you to freeze me too, I need you to fix me too-_

“Hello?” Shuri answered, sounded as chipper as always. “Steve, how are you! Look, I was just about to call you, I thought you might want to know that Bucky is just waking up. If you want you can fly over and visit him in a few days, what do you think?”

The words that Steve had practiced over and over fell from his lips, forgotten. “What?”

 


	3. The (Open) House

Sometimes, Steve worried that he would accidentally hurt someone by shaking their hand or hugging them too tightly. Of course, that was highly unlikely— just because he was stronger than average didn’t mean he had no control over it.  
  
 However, when it came to Bucky, he didn’t have to worry about this. He hugged Bucky as tightly as he wanted and Bucky just held him tighter, his one remaining arm wrapping around Steve’s back in a way that almost felt protective, like he wasn’t allowing Steve to leave the hug for his own good.  
  
 Sometimes, Steve wished that he didn’t have some of his wiring. He wished that he could have human moments, purely human moments, without having to balance on the line between human, soldier and freedom-fighter. He wished he could have just held Bucky, just enjoyed his friend's presence, but unfortunately that wasn’t how he was wired. He had to collect data, like it or not, and luckily, Bucky was wired that way too.  
  
 "Bucky."  
  
 "Steve. I missed you."  
  
 "Was it okay?"  
  
 "Yeah. You know how it is." Bucky knew what Steve was referring to, even without Steve ever clarifying _the cryofreeze chamber._  
  
 "Cold?"  
  
 "I swear, if the whole Stars and Stripes thing doesn’t work out you should become a comedian."  
  
 "Maybe I should become a comedian then."  
  
 "What happened?"  
  
 "You know what happened. The Accords."  
  
 "Shuri tells me that was over a year ago. It hasn’t blown over yet?"  
  
 "Apparently not. I hear America takes its terrorists seriously."  
  
 At that, Bucky scoffed, actually scoffed. "America is stupid."  
  
 "Yeah, well that’s just the..." Steve had gotten so caught up in the banter that he’d almost forgot that he was still supposed to be gentle.  
  
 Bucky snorted, and Steve could feel his grip tighten. "-just the Soviet in me?" Bucky finished for him, his tone maybe lighter than it should’ve been. "Go on Steve, you can say it."  
  
 Steve hesitated, then "I’m sorry Buck."  
  
 "Glad you got that out. I like the beard, by the way."  
  
 "You do?"  
  
 "You look like you’re fifty."  
  
 "Good. I’ve been trying to look younger."  
  
 Bucky snorted again, a stupid half chuckle that was music to Steve’s ears, because Bucky never laughed, not for real, only grinned and snorted and sometimes, _sometimes_ chuckled. "When I’m in the villages with Shuri, sometimes the kids try and mess with me, and she tells them to 'respect your elder!'" When he said this, his voice changed to imitate Shuri's accent. "And they all stop and apologize before running off, but I think Shuri just does it because she thinks it’s funny."  
  
 "It is," Steve agreed. They were still hugging. Steve wasn’t planning on letting go. "You spend a lot of time in the villages?"  
  
 "Some. I move around the villages a lot, every few weeks, so I can try something new. There are these mountains covered in snow, it’s ridiculous Steve, we're in the middle of Africa and it’s as cold as Brooklyn in January, but thats where the Jabari tribe lives. I lived with them for a few weeks, helped them with some infrastructure stuff."  
  
 "Infrastructure," Steve repeated, hardly noticing himself do it.  
  
 "Not that kind of infrastructure, knucklehead, I don’t do that anymore. I helped out with minor carpentry stuff. Everything here is super advanced, but the Jabari choose to live away from all of that. It was interesting."  
  
 "That sounds..."  
  
 "It does," Bucky answered when Steve let his sentence trail off. "It is."  
  
 "I’m happy for you."  
  
 "Yeah, well it’s a pretty good gig." Even though Steve couldn’t see Bucky's face he knew he was smiling, that half lidded smile that he did with his lips turned upwards. It was almost enough to make Steve pull away. "Right now I’m living with the, I guess you’d call it the Panther tribe, the royal family. I’m liking it a lot. I help out Shuri a lot in her workshop."  
  
 "You like it?"  
  
 "It’s great, she’s great. But every week, she has a new nickname for me, and I don’t know Steve, it’s kinda patronizing. Last week it was _ingcuka yomntwana,_ which is great if you don’t speak Xhosa."  
  
 "What does it mean?"  
  
 "Oh, please tell him," Shuri said behind Steve. "Go on, tell your pale friend, I’ll wait."  
  
 Bucky muttered something under his breath in another language, and Steve had no way to tell whether it was Xhosa or one of the other ones Bucky had picked up over the years. Shuri made a breathy laugh and jabbered something to him, to which Bucky responded in slow Xhosa.  
  
 "What’d she say?" Steve whispered.  
  
 "That we should stop hugging," Bucky translated. "And something else. Shuri is very rude."  
  
 Shuri replied to this and Bucky retaliated immediately, snapping something that made her quiet. "So I should just leave you two here? Is the extended hug a colonizer thing, or-"  
  
 Bucky mumbled something at her and Shuri laughed, rattling something back and leaving the room. "Sorry," Bucky said, still holding on to Steve. "But I’m not planning on letting go of you for a while."  
  
 "I have no problem with that." Steve adjusted his arms, resting his head on Bucky's shoulder and allowing himself to exhale.  
  
———————  
  
 Wakanda was beautiful and Wakanda was painful. It hurt somehow both less and more than his apartment back home hurt, less because Bucky was there, and more because Bucky was there.  
  
 They went on a tour of the village Bucky was staying in. Wakanda actually had cities, Bucky explained, and many of them were very similar to cities in the US, which is why he avoided them. He preferred staying in the villages.  
  
 Steve tried to pay attention to the tour, but it was hard when Bucky was walking right alongside him. He looked so incredibly different, but at the same time, the same. He had a short beard now, which was different, and the long hair, which was different from Bucky circa 1944, but his smile was the same, even if his eyes were a little lighter with that glossy sheen of someone who’s seen far too much. He carried himself with a mixture of the gait of James Buchanan Barnes and the Winter Soldier: slowly and smoothly, with a straight back and a lowered head, and sometimes it looked like he was lumbering but his steps were completely silent. When Steve pointed it out, Bucky grinned to himself, something he’d been doing a lot since the tour had started. "I like to sneak up on some of the kids. They’re always messing with me, it’s only fair I startle them from time to time." The words were slow, but calculated, like Bucky had practiced them so much they no longer had full meaning. The word 'startle' was strange too, though Steve supposed that Bucky didn’t like saying that he liked to scare people, not with his history. He wondered if Bucky had actually practiced the lines, on the off chance that he actually was able to use them. But maybe that was just something Steve did.  
  
 A few kids came around the corner of a tent and squealed, running over to them in the zig-zagging awkward way that only kids knew how to run. "White wolf, white wolf!"  
  
 He laughed and grinned, bending over and roaring out "Kwaye ngoku ndinomhlobo! Qaphela i-puppy-dog emhlophe!"  
  
 All of the children squealed, running around them and racing away. Steve felt like he was watched something happen to someone else, but when Bucky looked at him with that stupid grin he felt himself settle back into his shoes. "What’d you tell them?"  
  
 "I told them that I brought a friend," Bucky responded cockily. "Let’s keep walking. There’s still a lot to show you."  
  
————————  
  
 Steve's biggest regret was not being able to come to Wakanda sooner, which was stupid, because he had a lot of other, more important things to regret, yet somehow not visiting Bucky was his greatest one. When Shuri had called him and asked if she should send a plane for him, he told her he'd call her back with a date. Then he hid his phone in the couch cushions and laid on top of them, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, because it hurt a lot more than it should have. The next few weeks, he dreamt of picking up the phone and calling, but in real life, he never did.  
  
 It was stupid and selfish, and Steve was stupid and selfish. Inside his mind, the Captain fought him day and night, honor and justice and selflessness against sickness. Steve didn’t even know where the sickness had come from, just that it had crept up at some point and he’d never fought it off, like weeds that peak through the sidewalk cracks for years before one day taking over the entire house, and you wonder how it happened and how you didn’t notice, but it was too late anyways. The house was taken over, but there were simply too many weeds. Steve tried separating them in his mind, like he and Natasha had separated out the eggs in his basket. The eggs were the things that Steve had to be aware of and take care of, the different parts of his life and personality and everything in between and everything he needed to figure out, but instead he hid the eggs under the couch cushions in his mind and ignored them. He had a serious problems with the weeds; he had to figure those out first.  
  
 The biggest weeds were his failures. He fought them back day and night, all while Captain America stood next to him, shaking his head and offering no help.  
  
 There was no organizing the weeds and there was no removing them. Steve was at the point where his only option was toleration. Eventually the weeds would probably strangle him and he’d die, but until them he had to simply sit and wait.  
  
 That was why it took so long for him to get to Wakanda. And yes, it was selfish for Steve to do anything but take responsibility for his actions, and yes, he knew that the entire past year was just him acting in selfishness, but in his defense, he was trying not to be strangled to death by the weeds, so at least he had some sort of excuse.  
  
 He was glad Phil Coulson was dead. Steve didn’t need any more people to disappoint.  
  
 Finally, Steve had managed to pick up the phone and call Shuri. She answered almost immediately, complaining briefly about using the old technology- in Wakanda they had some sort of hologram technology- then asking when she could pick Steve up. He said two weeks, because that would give him enough time to collect himself, surely.  
  
 Spoiler alert: it was not.  
  
 When he first saw Bucky he'd expected him to be upset or disappointed. Instead, Bucky grinned and moved forwards to hug Steve. It seemed fake. He was too happy to see him— Steve wasn’t sure if he was worth the trouble.  
  
 That night they sat on a cliff overlooking some of the beautiful mountains of Wakanda as the sun sunk behind them. Bucky was careful when he sat down, using his one arm to keep him from sliding off the ledge. Steve wondered, once more, why they hadn’t made him another prosthetic yet, but he knew Bucky well enough to know the answer: they had, he had just refused it.  
  
 They sat in silence until Bucky spoke up.  
  
 "I could not ask," Bucky started. "But what fun would that be?"  
  
 Steve grunted. "Hmm?"  
  
 "Come on Steve. What’s going on?"  
  
 Steve found himself shaking his head. "Nothing. I’m... it’s everything, you know? I just need to... suck it up, I guess." He glanced at Bucky, who’s expression had dropped from casual to disturbed in about two seconds. "Sorry," Steve added quickly.  
  
 "Don’t... say that," Bucky tried, like it was hard for him to find the words. "That you’re sorry. You shouldn’t be sorry, you didn’t do anything."  
  
 Steve opened his mouth but it took a few moments for anything to come out. "I’m supposed to be these things, and, I don’t know what it is, if it’s... a chemical imbalance, something wrong with the serum—" he stopped when he saw Bucky’s expression.  
  
 He furrowed his forehead, looking confused. "Nothing's wrong with you, Steve. You’re sick. It happens."  
  
 "This isn’t pneumonia Bucky, this-"  
  
 Bucky raised his eyebrows, waiting for Steve to continue. He stumbled on his words, none of them seeming right. "How’s it different?" Bucky asked. "Are you tired? No energy? Sleeping constantly, or having issues with falling asleep at all? Does your stomach or head hurt?"  
  
 Steve sighed, looking down. "Bucky-"  
  
 "Do you feel like that? Just tell me."  
  
 "Sometimes. But Bucky-"  
  
 "All of those symptoms sound like the symptoms of a sick person, don’t they? Don’t they Steve?"  
  
 "Bucky—"  
  
 Bucky stared ahead, the sunset no longer seeming to bring him comfort. "How long?"  
  
 Steve exhaled. His head _did_ hurt. His entire body buzzed with a stinging numbness, like his muscles were trying to fall asleep but the serum wasn’t going to let them. There was always a fight, even when he was just sitting, watching the sunset. "About a year. Give or take."  
  
 "Yeah? And what have you done about it?"  
  
 "Done about what?"  
  
 Bucky rolled his eyes. "Come on knucklehead, you’ve been sick for a year. Great. What have you done, actually done to get better?"  
  
 Steve’s mind was completely empty. He couldn’t even think up a decent excuse. "I couldn’t do anything," he tried, willing his voice to not sound so damn weak. "It’s... it's rough, Buck, it’s been... and I’ve been..." he huffed, running a hand through his hair. "I’ve been really lazy."  
  
 "Oh great, self deprecation. If you’d excuse me, I’m going to jump off this cliff now, thanks."  
  
 Steve looked at him with a mixture of horror and betrayal. "Bucky! Don’t joke—"  
  
 "Calm down white boy." Bucky snorted, immediately going to apologize. "Sorry, sorry. I’ve been spending too much time around Shuri and it feels nice being on the other side, you know? That’s not the point. The point is—" he looked at Steve, trying desperately hard to be serious, and also failing. "Ah, I’m sorry. I’m being a jerk, aren’t I?"  
  
 "You are," Steve said, trying to smooth down his tone. "Are you... are you high?"  
  
 "High on the drug of life," Bucky said a little giddily. "I’m sorry Steve I’m... tired, I think. I sleep more now than I ever did before... I mean, except for those few times I was frozen for months at a time, but that wasn’t sleep as much as it was  forced... ice-cubage." Bucky saw his horrified expression and snorted, immediately going back into apologies. "Okay, okay, I’m done. I’m tired Stevie, and I’m also really excited to see you, in case you haven’t noticed. Even if you are a goddamn mess."  
  
 Steve rolled his eyes. "Yeah, thanks Buck."  
  
 They sat in silence for a few moments as the Captain shouted at Steve inside his head, poking him and yelling at him to say it, say it, just say it _you fucking-_  
   
 "Do you think Shuri would... I mean... did the cryofreeze help?" Steve tried to phrase it carefully but based on Bucky's expression, he saw right through him.  
  
 Bucky's smile had dropped, and mentally Steve kicked himself. Bucky shook his head, looking away. "Steve... is it that bad?"  
  
 Steve shrugged. Then, a moment later, he shrugged again. "I don’t know. I’m tired though, I’m... it sounds nice. A break. A few months, maybe, and she could mess around in my head, pull out the weeds—"  
  
 "The what?"  
  
 "The... problems." _The flaws._ "I don’t know, it’s stupid. But... I don’t know. You said it yourself, I’m sick, and I sure as hell don’t know what to do, so..."  
  
  _Good job Steve,_ The Captain chided. _Running away from your problems. Nice._  
  
 Bucky stared at him for a while, an infinity, a couple of days, a few seconds. His gaze was a warm, familiar sting. Steve wished he’d look away. "You need to do something that brings you life," he decided. "This started after the Accords, the government scandal... I’m guessing you didn’t know what to do with yourself afterwards. You need... purpose."  
  
_That sounds exhausting._ "Okay. Yeah, I’ll... do that, thanks Buck. Has anyone else visited you? Have you heard from Tony?"  
  
 Bucky knew him too well, knew exactly what he was doing, knew that he was _lying_. But he let it go— for the moment at least. "I haven’t heard from anyone else. Just you. How is Tony?"  
  
 "I wouldn’t know."  
  
 "It’s been a year. How long as you planning on being at odds?"  
  
 Steve shrugged. "He hasn’t called."  
  
 The sun was almost all the way below the mountains. Bucky sighed, shuffling backwards. "I’m tired. Come on Stevie, let’s go to bed."  
  
 They’d been two Brooklyn boys, nineteen and twenty-two, fighting and joking and snapping at each other and supporting each other, no matter what no matter where. They weren’t in Brooklyn anymore, and countless other things had changed, trying to push them apart. Maybe one day they would succeed.  
  
 But not then. Not now.  


**Author's Note:**

> Important Notes: 
> 
> -The heat signatures/car discussion they have is not based on facts. In reality, since cars are made out of metal the roofs would have a more evenly distributed heat signature. However, it’s more than possible for S.H.I.E.L.S. yo have some more advanced heat-signature technology, in which case Natasha's plan could work. 
> 
>  
> 
> Side Notes:
> 
> -Sam Wilson is thirsty for Natasha in this story because in real life, Anthony Mackie is thirty for Scarlett Johansson
> 
> -Steve claiming to have been paraded around like a 'trained monkey' in WW2 is a direct reference to a sketch he made in CA: The First Avenger 
> 
> -The sentence Steve says to Bucky in Wakanda is a direct quote from Civil War
> 
> -Sam being willing to disrupt his life for Steve's fight is a direct nod to the house scene from The Winter Soldier, when Steve says: "I can’t ask you to do this Sam. You got out for a good reason."
> 
> And Sam says: "Dude, Captain America needs my help. There’s no better reason to get back in."
> 
> (This is also part of the reason why Steve has so much pressure on him to be the perfect Captain America; he was frozen for long enough for people to make a martyr out of him.)
> 
>  
> 
> If you have any suggestions, questions, comments or theories please feel free to share :)


End file.
